Cognitive Dissent

Regulate ammo like drink containers

When I was a kid growing up in NYC, I remember scumbags and turds floating in the East River and Long Island Sound, but still there was local opposition to the construction of sewage plants that slowly cleaned the waterways as the infrastructure was built out. 

This was more than a decade before the Cuyahoga River caught fire in Ohio. Governments on the east coast had been dumping human waste in the Atlantic since the early 1930s, and that shit and sludge began arriving on the beaches to celebrate the bicentennial.

For some, it may be difficult to think that only 60 years ago, many lived in an environment that amounted to an open-sewer in even large American cities. In fact, in the red state rural areas today some proud deplorables still have indoor outhouses that pipe their shit and piss into open cess ponds out back. Kentucky, I’m looking at you.

At the same time, I remember also carrying my mother’s Pepsi bottles across the street to Bloise’s to redeem the deposit, which back then was less than a nickel. I’ve lived in several states since, some of them much more environmentally toxic than others, but invariably, the least toxic and best places to live had some form of bottle bill to help clean up the consequence of living in a superstitious consumer society.

Gun violence was already a thing in the 40s. I wasn’t even in kindergarten yet when Howard Unruh took a Luger and killed 13 and wounded four in Camden, New Jersey. It could have been worse. He ran out of ammo and was arrested at his home, telling the cops that he would have killed thousands if he had enough ammo.

When Charles Whitman took to the tower in Texas, I was at Clemson, preparing to drop out and get drafted.

This was all before the NRA became a latter day founding father of this nation of miserable fucks.

I don’t like weapons. I write things, but unlike Henri Michaux, who in "I am Writing to You From a Far Off Country" wrote: “I do not say this in order to wound. I could say other things if i really wanted to wound,” I am not averse to inflicting pain on those incapable of joy or reason.

I have no commonly held opinions. I’m a cynic, like Diogenes, the man who originally told Alexander the Great that the problem with common sense is it is so damned common. Idiots have common sense. Idiots are deplorable. Idiots elected Richard Nixon, Ronald Reagan, two George Bushes, and Donald Trump. Idiots are counter-indicative to a functioning democracy, which is a concept based on uncommon sense.

To put it another way: There is no common sense; it is common nonsense.

Which is why I propose that the way to curb gun violence in this nation of miserable fucks is to employ an uncommonly sensible approach, combining a minimalist reading of the Second Amendment with the successes of bottle bills and other taxes and fees that have traditionally been used to deter bad behavior or encourage acts for the common good.

Here are the exact words of the Second Amendment: "A well regulated Militia, being necessary to the security of a free State, the right of the people to keep and bear Arms, shall not be infringed.” There is no mention of a right to own and bear ammunition.

Bottle bills exist in 10 states today. They provide income to the poor and homeless who become environmental stewards simply by trying to stay alive by cashing in containers that rich fucks just toss out the window as they drive back and forth between their meaningless jobs and their meaningless lives. Bottle bills help reduce waste in landfills as well as removing litter on our streets and in our parks and wild areas. 

Cigarette and alcohol taxes are designed not only to raise revenue but to reduce unhealthy behaviors that are a drain on society because everyone contributes to a healthcare infrastructure that those with self-inflicted disorders put an unfair burden upon. I’ve been a smoker, an addict, and an alcoholic, and when I was most thoroughly immersed in those addictions I was most apt to be unproductive and a drain on friends, family, and society. Not that I gave a fuck.

I suggest that gun violence in America is an addictive behavior exhibited by ammosexuals who really enjoy putting holes in things, blowing shit up, and killing animals — including humans — because that’s how they get high. You can’t reason with an addict. An addict will either die or kick the addiction, and most addicts don’t intentionally kill themselves so making their lives miserable is the only proven method I’ve seen to bring about a change. It worked for me. The power of anecdotalism is strong.

Another thing about modern America is how batshit crazy it is for market-driven solutions that are really designed by those with money and power to maintain and grow their money in power. I bet there are still idiots waiting for Ronald Reagan’s prosperity to trickle down to them. Oh wait, those are the deplorables, aren’t they? You know, those poor put-upon white folks who felt so deprived they voted straight Nazi in 2016.

I propose a solution to gun violence that uses proven strategies like bottle bills and supply-side economic theory to make it too fucking expensive for murderous assholes to poke holes in people, places, and things with this simple three pronged approach.

  1. Establish a nationwide minimum per unit price for each round of ammo by caliber with a 22 bullet going for $10 a pop. Pun intended. A 30 caliber round should go for $30-40. You should pay a minimum of $20 for a shotgun shell. Details can be worked out in conference between Demoblicans and Repugnicunts.
  2. Enact a nationwide surcharge, also tied to individual rounds, ranging from $10-50 depending on the kinds of injuries and slaughter observed during the previous five years in non-combat situations. This surcharge would be placed in a trust fund, similar to the Social Security, to be used for rehabilitation of gun violence survivors and to help the families of all those rotting bodies.
  3. Require a $10 per round deposit across the board, regardless of ammo type, that can be redeemed by whoever brings a spent casing to a retail outlet that sells the piercing joy juice that ammosexuals crave. In addition to making firing off a burst even more prohibitively expensive, it can become a source of income for kids, the homeless, and others willing to clean up the carnage on our streets and the debris left in our national parks.

There it is in a nutshell, an uncommonly sensible suggestion from this cognitive dissident to our modern world of potential targets. Feel free to tweak it.

Makes more sense that putting everyone in body armor.

Are we there yet?

I was born an agnostic bastard. My father was a lapsed Catholic, my mother a Southern Baptist. They were born in New Jersey and Kentucky respectively. They met and married at Camp Campbell in Hopkinsville, KY, the nuptials conducted by a justice of the peace. After my father was discharged while recovering from a broken back, they moved to New York City, where my father became a master machinist and my mother a housewife who eventually had four children, sold Avon cosmetics, made costume jewelry, and worked as a crossing guard.

Before they had a second child, they married again in a Catholic church so I could be baptized to save my worthless soul and my siblings would be born Catholic and saved as well. I was too young to tell them not to waste their time, but I suspect that happens to a lot of little kids whose arms are too short to give God a wedgie.

Because my imaginary soul was in danger of going to hell without proper and constant indoctrination, my parents argued and compromised and decided I should attend the Dutch Reform Church across the street (where I later joined a Boy Scout troop and got blown by Scoutmaster Armitage) instead of St. Francis of Assisi (where I would later be blown by Father Capaldi) until I was old enough to have my own paper route.

But to keep my grandmother happy, I had to go to Catechism class after elementary school twice a week where Sister Diana would rap my knuckles whenever I mentioned dinosaurs, nuclear bombs, and niggers, none of which seemed to fit in with the Catechism lessons.

This was back when I had to wear dog tags to go to school. Everybody had to wear them in case the Russians bombed the shit out of us with nuclear weapons. The idea was that if we didn’t have our dog tags, no one would be able to identify our bodies, and our families would not be getting the insurance money they were due after the Russians attacked.

During all the church-related horseshit, I only remember my mother participating in the religious crap that makes America so fucking ordinary by taking the kids to Robert Hall to buy Easter outfits. She may have attended our first communions and confirmations. I still take pride in receiving my confirmation with a sacrilege on my soul, having lied during confession prior to getting slapped by the bishop.

My father only went to church once, after Father Schaefer listened to my youngest brother confess to masturbating and responded by telling him that God would never forgive him. He was going to Hell, and his pecker would burn for eternity. My father went to church to kill Father Schaefer. I wish I could say my father was successful, but he was a failure.

It was a very strange time to grow up. Not as strange as it must be today for young kids in this crazy nation of miserable fucks, but my life was already pretty miserable before I got to junior high.

Not that I was unhappy. I enjoyed all sorts of shit. I liked reading, and I had friends in the neighborhood and at school and at the park where I learned to play handball and got quite good at it. I liked fishing in Long Island Sound, Great South Bay, and in the Atlantic Ocean.

I was a lefty. Still am. No thanks to Mrs. Milano. She wanted everyone to be righties. She made me write with my wrong hand in class, which resulted in terrible report cards home about my terrible penmanship. When we started having a lot of homework, I did it with my left hand, so Mrs. Milano called my parents to school to find out who was doing my homework.

This happened in the fourth grade, of course. In America, the fourth grade is where your dreams are crushed by socialization, and you begin to be sorted out by the educational system into crazies, worker drones, soldiers, inmates, and a few lucky kids who are given merit badges, which aren’t called that, of course, until you become a Scout. 

I forgot to mention that this was during the McCarthy era when America was also a scary place for many adults. My parents were actually afraid of Mrs. Milano. It was not a good time to stand out like a sore thumb. That was a popular saying at the time. It meant everyone should mind their manners and do what they were told, "or else". No one really wanted to find out what "or else" meant. Everyone figured it was probably pretty bad. Families in the neighborhood occasionally disappeared.

In elementary school, you got red, blue, green, silver, and gold stars you could paste next to your name on a big chalkboard in the back of the room. It was our earliest introduction to Capitalism. The stars were worthless, but for some reason the teachers were determined to make us want to earn and collect them, because the more stars we got, especially the gold and silver ones, the better we were treated. Kids with the fewest and least important stars were going to prison or die in the war.

Don’t ever let anyone fool you. America is always at war. It has always been at war. It will always be at war until America is no more. That’s why everyone else in the world is our enemy. You think that a bunch of guys from the Middle East just got drunk and decided to fly airliners into the World Trade Center and the Pentagon as a prank? They were getting even for America’s ongoing war against world peace. They chose September 11 because that was the anniversary of the US assassination of Salvador Allende during the Reagan administration.

When George W. Bush responded to 9/11 by calling for a crusade against terrorism, he re-ignited a religious war that predated America’s entry into it. 

Looking back on my early years, I can now say that all I learned was not to trust anyone about anything because everyone in a position of authority knew absolutely nothing of any value. They were believers. Believers are the worst form of humanity.

Later in college I discovered that there was a word for my world view. I was a cynic. I could trace my discomfort with humanity back to Diogenes, who died in Greece 300 years before Christ got people so pissed off they nailed him to a cross and then turned him into the cash cow that they still milk today.

Cynicism is a necessary survival skill when you’re committed to remaining a free citizen in this nation of miserable fucks.

Reflections on a dragon booger

By now everyone has seen this odd video about the bryozoan from the Lost Lagoon in Vancouver, British Columbia, eh?

I came across it at Popular Science, which has an entertaining write-up here.

What was news to me was that assholes can be either internal or external, and when you’re living in water it doesn’t really matter where your asshole, penis, pussy, or mouth is because whatever you excrete, you’re swimming in it. Sort of like Houston after Hurricane Harvey but currently two thirds of Earth’s surface.

Only a scientist would get up one morning and say: “You know, I bet not all assholes are the same, and you can tell the difference between them by watching whether they shit all over everything or they hold it inside and live lives of desperate quietude. I think I’ll study that for the rest of my life!”

Dragon boogers are extroverted assholes. We all know plenty of introverted assholes. There will probably even be transverted assholes after some asshole complains that this site is obviously too binary for its own good. I prefer averted assholes whenever possible. Perverted assholes are also pretty bad.

Although these so-called dragon boogers look like a single living blob, they are actually a commune of individual organisms who band together for the greater good to share a single asshole, much like 40 million American voters continue to rally around their singular asshole, Russian Turd Puppet Donald Trump.

Read the entire Popular Science article and share it with family and friends, many of whom may be the kind of living organisms that gather together just to be repulsive as possible wallowing in the slime below the bottom of the barrel because that’s what’s going to make America great again.

Do not normalize deplorable scumbags

The same irresponsible professional media that shamelessly sold #RussiantRumpRanger propaganda to more than 60 million ignorant, bigoted, cowardly Amerikan voters is now calling upon the outraged rational members of society not to further alienate the vicious immoral jerks that showed up at the polls to vote their black consciences and put one of their idols in the White House.

This is nothing new. Professional media people have engaged in championing totalitarian mindfuckers since I was old enough to sit in a classroom and try to resist the horseshit that passes for discourse and education and civic responsibility. Nixon was reelected and allowed to get away with murdering millions of people because our fourth estate is, after all, just another of the estates in our evolving oligarchy.

Donnie Dimwit is and was a clearly racist, sexist, xenophobic, rabble-rouser and yet the media continued its 50 year slog down the road to ignoring obvious signs of cancer on the body politic by encouraging the very worst in Amerika to elect the very worst candidate available because that’s The American Way.

We are a nation of miserable fucks and have been since we arose from the muck because we’re fucking humanists, incapable of understanding what Bukowski meant in “those sons of bitches” when he wrote:

one tombstone for the mess,
I say:
humanity, you never had it
from the beginning.

It’s bad enough that more than 60 million Amerikans voted for Tweetie Turd, but even now in the third month of this death spiral of incompetence, malevolence, and vindictiveness, a mere 3% of people who admit to voting for a Hitler wannabe claim they regret their vote.

Three fucking percent, which means that more than 58 million voters should not be trusted with firearms because they are obviously batshit crazy. They’re not just stupid. They are proud of their ignorance. Why else would anyone wear a tee-shirt like this?

They buy stickers and posters:

Don’t forgive or ignore these toxic scumbags. Words have meanings. Actions have consequences. Before you extend a hand to any of these worthless pieces of shit, remember that you will not be able to wash it off when the stench becomes too horrible to stand because you will have willingly taken that shit into your soul and become one with the very essence of what it means to be deplorable.

If you’re OK with that, fine. You are my intractable enemy, and I will work to do whatever I can to make sure you suffer the fate you deserve. If you can’t admit that you were and are wrong for supporting our current national embarrassment you are no better than he is.


I misread a story by Sarah Kaplan today

It was a story about Neanderthals. It originally appeared in The Washington Post, but I saw it in The Oregonadian/OregonadiaLive, an Advance Publication for mass click debaters. The story nestled among other unrelated journalistic gems from stiff and wired reports about the Border Patrol no longer being able to perform background checks on new hires because of funding cuts and the need to hire thousands more agents to kill or capture Mexicans under President* Donnie Dimwit’s hingeless immigration policies. Another AP story discussed the Day Without Women protests that made Donnie’s pussy-grabbing hands itch, and the page was rounded out with a story on an ISIS attack on a hospital in Afghanistan and a Dear Abby column about “parental alienation.” The only things missing were ads for incontinence diapers, edible crotchless underwear, and great new investment opportunities.

The headline chosen for Sarah’s story was 

Neanderthal teeth show diet based on locale 

Ain’t got no papers on myself

One of the great albums from the late sixties was Forever Changes by Love, and this is one of the great songs from that great album.

There are quite a few other great songs on the album, but this one seems particularly relevant in the world we currently find ourselves stumbling through, with a maniacal sociopath in the White House, surrounded by his hand-picked deplorable bunch of desperate wanker whackers.

Do you have your papers in order? I’m not talking about you immigrants, I’m talking about people born in the USA. What are you gonna do when ICE personnel swoop in on some food cart and start checking to see if everyone is legal? 

Admit it. You thought that all those Repugnicunt efforts to require photo ID or other proof of identity to vote was just to make it difficult for people you don’t really give a shit about to exercise their inalienable right to choose how they are governed. It wasn’t. The real intention was to normalize the concept of having to produce identification upon demand by whatever authority happens to ask you for it.

The Repugnicunt war on freedom of movement and thought has been doubling down in recent weeks, and coming soon to a business or venue near you is the impact of one or more of Donnie Dumbo’s executive orders to make America greatly safe or safely grate again.

Remember, in the current climate, the authorities only have to suspect that you are not in the country illegally to detain you. Being a citizen is no excuse for not complying with official requests that you produce your papers. In fact, Repugnicunt state legislators are hard at work making it easier to imprison people simply for protesting their government.

Of course, many people, like Arthur Lee, don’t carry around any papers to prove their citizenship. A driver’s license, a student ID, an employee badge? Are these valid proof of citizenship? I don’t think so. Homey don’t play that.

Think about it the next time you’re standing on the street corner waiting for a bus and an official vehicle pulls up to the curb and someone calls out the window: “Sir (or madam), can I have a word with you?”

It might be time to kiss your naive ass goodbye.

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